


Patriotism in Regicide

by arikylo



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassination Plot(s), Dark Thoughts, Dark!Kaladin (kind of), Gen, Regicide, Skybreaker!Kaladin, Words of Radiance spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 03:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19433479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arikylo/pseuds/arikylo
Summary: With his powers lost to him, Kaladin knows there's only one way to ensure Alethkar's survival. Moash and Graves were right. And he is going to help them.





	Patriotism in Regicide

****Kaladin stood by the window watching the rain fall. The night was dark, the raindrops barely distinguishable—outlined only by the pale light they reflected from the palace and the occasional flicker of lightning in the sky. Kaladin could just make out the lights of the warcamps in the distance. Beyond them, he could see nothing, though he knew Dalinar and his army were out there somewhere on the Shattered Plains.

He suppressed a shiver. There was a chill in the air tonight and his damp clothing didn’t help. His coat was still dripping, the water pattering onto the stone floor in a soft but steady rhythm. The weak echo it created reverberated down the halls with a hollowness that betrayed the deserted state of the king’s complex. 

He had arrived not fifteen minutes past, soaked and sore from the trip up the hill, to be told that the Assassin in White had been sighted. The palace was in subsequent lockdown; the servants had been relegated to their rooms and the guests escorted to safety, the king confined to his chambers. Guards had lined the corridors, armed and ready, but they were gone now. Kaladin had dismissed them shortly after his arrival.

Now, he stood alone by one of the servant’s entrances, watching and waiting.

It wasn’t long before he spotted what he was looking for. A flicker of lightning—not a bolt, but a flash of light that rolled through the clouds—illuminated them. Two figures, hooded and cloaked, approaching the king’s complex via the half-buried and overrun servant’s path.

Kaladin shifted on the spot, readjusting his grip on his spear so he could better lean into it. His leg ached from the chill and the injury that had not yet fully healed—that, perhaps, never would. In this moment, Kaladin’s spear was less of a weapon and more of a crutch, though he knew that could change in an instant. Ideally, it wouldn’t have to, though, if things went well.

Another flicker in the sky revealed the two figures now cresting the hill. They were large shadows against a dark backdrop and the lightning revealed a glint of metal under their cloaks, a glimpse of Shardplate. Kaladin moved away from the window, lest they see him.

He didn’t have to wait long before the servant’s door creaked open and rain spilled inwards. The two Shardbearers entered, their metallic footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. They threw off their cloaks, revealing brilliant, head-to-foot Shardplate underneath. Somehow, the armour still managed to look magnificent even in the dullness of the night. Both of the Shardbearers wore their visors up—presumably to see better in the dark—so Kaladin was able to catch the instant tension that formed on their faces when they spotted him.

“Kaladin,” the one on the left said.

“Moash,” Kaladin acknowledged. He glanced at the other. “Graves.”

“I thought you were going to stay away,” Moash said, tone wary. 

“I guess I couldn’t.”

Kaladin saw Graves shift ever so slightly. The man’s right arm twitched and his palm opened, a not-so-subtle warning that he could summon his Shardblade in seconds if he deemed Kaladin a threat. 

Moash noticed too and raised a hand in Graves’s direction. He looked warily at Kaladin. 

“Which means?” he asked slowly.

Kaladin swallowed hard as he stared at his friend. He opened his mouth to answer but, concerningly, found that his voice failed him. 

Moash frowned and Kaladin shifted on the spot, frustrated. He had made up his mind about this. He had made his decision, so why was it so storming hard to say it out loud?

“Kal?” Moash asked. “Are you with us?”

Kaladin shifted again. His aching leg was a constant reminder of his broken oaths and the emptiness where Syl should be. But this had to happen. With his powers lost to him for good, this was the only way he could help Alethkar.

“Yes,” Kaladin whispered. “I’m with you.”

Moash stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed as if he had been expecting a different answer. Then, he grinned and clapped a plated hand on Kaladin’s shoulder. “I knew we could count on you, Kal.”

Kaladin managed a weak smile for his friend, though it faltered the instant Moash turned to grin at Graves. As much as he knew this was the right thing to do, it had not been an easy decision and a part of him still felt sick at the thought. But he did his best to bury the part of himself that still questioned.

Because sometimes sacrifices had to be made. What Moash and Graves planned to do—what he had decided to _let_ them do—was, ultimately, necessary.

“I take it the coast is clear, Captain?” Graves asked. The tension on the man’s face had eased at Kaladin’s admission of allegiance, though he still seemed somewhat cautious. 

Kaladin nodded. “Your diversion worked well. The servants and guests have retreated to their rooms. Elhokar is in his chambers.”

“Excellent,” Graves said, though he frowned as he looked down the corridor. “Where are the hallway guards?”

“I… dismissed them,” Kaladin replied. Graves gave him a look and Kaladin hurried to explain himself. “That way no one can run for help and Elhokar will have no backup to call upon.” It was a logical answer, but it was a half-truth at best; he had dismissed the guards to save them from being slaughtered by the Shardbearers.

Unfortunately, Graves wasn’t so easily diverted from the true issue of the matter. “And when Dalinar asks you why you dismissed the guards despite the threat of the Assassin?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“Who can say why Elhokar wanted the guards dismissed,” Kaladin answered easily. “Maybe he acted like a true king and didn’t want more men to die than was necessary.” He heard Moash scoff quietly, but ignored him. “Maybe he was panicked and not thinking straight. I just carried out the orders I was given.” 

Kaladin kept himself still as Graves studied him closely, considering. He had felt guilty lying to his men about the reason they were dismissed, but he couldn’t have the blame fall on him, lest he become a suspect in the whole ordeal. The lie was necessary; his men would be safe because of it. And, if Moash and Graves succeeded, no one would be able to prove that Elhokar hadn’t given the order.

Graves nodded. “Very well.”

Moash, who had been watching Graves’s interrogation of Kaladin somewhat cautiously, grinned. “Then this will be as easy as we hoped,” he said, his eyes alight with a flicker of something that made Kaladin’s insides curl.

“Elhokar’s not alone in his rooms,” Kaladin said. “There will still be guards there. Perhaps some guests and servants too.” The ones he couldn’t save. Kaladin felt the guilt simmering low in his stomach.

“That’s no matter,” Graves said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Some of them are ours. As for the rest, they should be no match for a renowned captain such as yourself. Am I correct?”

Kaladin froze. “I agreed to give you a clear path to the king,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t agree to kill anyone for you.”

“Really? Then why are you here?”

A pointed silence followed the question and Kaladin stared.

“What?” he breathed.

Graves raised an eyebrow, a sly look in his eyes. “If you’re not here to kill anyone, Captain, and you’re not here to stop us, then why didn’t you leave when the guards did?”

The words echoed down the corridor, fading away to nothing but a whisper, but in Kaladin’s mind they rang blazingly and repetitively loud. So much so, that he felt momentarily stunned.

Because he hadn’t realised it up until now, but he was standing alongside the would-be-assassins like he was one of them—like he _wanted_ to be. A part of him wanted to deny it—felt sick at the thought—because, _no_ , he hadn’t come here to kill anyone—he had come to save the guards from dying unnecessarily. He had come to clear Moash and Graves a path because he agreed with what they were doing, but he hadn’t wanted to get involved any further. He hadn’t wanted to get involved _personally._

Had he?

The sinking feeling in his chest said otherwise. Because why else would he still be here, if not to take part? 

Kaladin swallowed, staring uneasily at Graves. He had thought he had this all figured out. He had decided that Elhokar needed to die. And he had decided that he would help Moash and Graves make it happen. But for some reason—some _stupid_ reason—he had managed to convince himself that his hands would remain clean through all of this. That he wouldn’t have to drench himself in blood to bring about the end of Elhokar’s rule.

But at the same time, deep down, he had always known it would come to this. Because running at the last second was gutless, because slinking back to the barracks and letting someone else do the dirty work was the act of a coward, and he knew he could never live with himself if he took that path. He had to be here. He had to do this. 

Still, there was a part of him that screamed against it. Because, despite it all, he really, truly didn’t want to kill anyone.

“Come,” Graves said as he turned and started making his way down the corridor. “We have important work to do.”

Kaladin stared after him hollowly, painfully. Because he knew. He knew that although he didn’t _want_ to kill anyone, there was a stark difference between want and _need_.

Sacrifices were never wanted.

But they were always needed.

Like the removal of a limb to save the rest of the body—no matter how small the cut that had festered was, it had to be done, else the patient would die. 

He flinched as a hand landed on his shoulder. Turning, he found Moash staring at him imploringly. 

“You can do this, Kal,” Moash said, nodding slightly in encouragement. He tilted his head in Graves’s direction. “Come on.”

Moash made to pull Kaladin along, but his grip slipped off as Kaladin rocked on the spot, feet rooted to the floor. Moash stopped and stared at him in concern, hand still hovering in mid air, offering to help him forward.

Kaladin stared at his friend. He still felt hollow. He still felt sick. But slowly, ever so slowly, his resolve was growing. He was starting to accept the reality of the situation, the reality of his involvement.

Some said the hands of the healer were the bloodiest, and Kaladin didn’t disagree. In fact, he found that statement to be ever-increasingly relevant to his life. He had always been driven to protect people, to save people—initially through medicine and then eventually through killing. Both methods always resulted in bloodied hands, but both worked. He was, however, far better at one than the other. 

His father would be disappointed in him.

Kaladin felt a chill. If he hadn’t always so fundamentally disagreed with his father on the morality of saving lives through taking lives, that thought might have been enough to make him turn around.

As it was, it only strengthened his resolve.

Because the people of Alethkar needed his protection. Elhokar’s lousy rule was a blight upon the land and Kaladin had the power to put an end to it. Yes, some would die who didn’t deserve it, but sacrifices were a necessary part of life. Innocent blood might stain his hands tonight, but his hands had never been clean anyway. And Elhokar’s?

Elhokar’s were far more bloody than his own. The king deserved what was coming to him.

At least, that’s what he told himself as he turned and followed Graves down the corridor—turned and took his first steps down the path of assassination.

Moash walked beside him. His friend’s Shardplate glinted in the light of the lamps, the occasional flash of lightning adding a wicked edge to the armour. Kaladin didn’t regret giving Moash the Shardplate, despite how inferior he felt walking next to him now. Limping and without the aid of Stormlight, he struggled to keep up with Moash’s enhanced strides. But he kept the pace as best he could, because the two of them, side by side, had always felt right. It still did, despite the fact that they were on their way to kill the king.

They caught up to Graves at the beginning of the corridor that led to Elhokar’s chambers. Kaladin leaned heavily into his spear as he came to a stop, doing his best to ignore the throbbing in his leg. 

Graves, who had been eyeing the king’s unguarded door with a steely gaze, turned to face him and slid a dagger from a sheath on his hip. Most Shardbearers carried no other weapons than their Blade, but Graves seemed to have a small assortment strapped to himself. He held the blade out to Kaladin.

“For close combat,” Graves said. “It will serve you better than your spear in such a confined space.”

Kaladin stared at the blade for a moment, before he reached out and closed a fist around the dagger hilt. A shiver ran down his spine.

“We can count on you, can’t we?” Graves asked, looking at him intently.

Kaladin lifted the dagger up to examine it. His reflection stared back at him, warped and dull, but the edges of the blade caught the light from the spheres on the wall. It was wicked sharp. Meant for dark deeds in dark alleys, Kaladin thought, or last resorts when all other weapons failed. As much as he didn’t fancy using the weapon, it suited perfectly.

He looked at Graves. “Yes,” he said. “You can count on me.” It was the most confident he had sounded all night.

To his side, Moash grinned, but Graves remained wholly focused, wholly serious. “The plan is to pin this on the Assassin in White,” he said. “That can mean no witnesses.”

“I understand,” said Kaladin, gripping the dagger tightly. And he did. He would do what he had to for the good of Alethkar.

Graves regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “Then let’s do this.”

The walk down Elhokar’s corridor was both the shortest and longest Kaladin had done in his life. Despite managing to mostly keep up with Moash before, he quickly fell behind his companions this time. The two Shardbearers seemed so invigorated, so eager and determined that their Plate enhanced movements carried them to Elhokar’s rooms so much faster than Kaladin could limp. 

They barely stopped as they reached the door. Graves threw it open with ease, Moash right alongside him, and together the two Shardbearers stepped into Elhokar’s chambers. A couple of gasps and a startled exclamation from Elhokar echoed down the hallway, though it was soon followed by an exaggerated sigh of relief.

“I thought you were the Assassin in White,” Kaladin heard Elhokar say to the Shardbearers as he approached. “You could have at least knocked. You gave us all quite a fright.” 

Kaladin frowned. The king’s words sounded a little slurred. Had he been drinking?

Kaladin kept his dagger hidden in the folds of his coat as he sidled up to the doorway and scanned the room. Guards dressed in Kholin blue lined the walls, weapons held at the ready. Most of them looked tense at the unexpected arrival of two Shardbearers, though a few looked at ease. Kaladin figured those were Graves’s men. 

He turned his gaze towards the king and felt his heart skip a beat. 

Elhokar stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by servants and a handful of lighteyed nobles. He had a half-dazed, half-annoyed expression on his face. 

And he was not dressed in Shardplate. 

Kaladin stared, wide-eyed and a little shocked. Had he been in charge tonight—and had actually cared about the king’s safety—he would have started putting Plate on Elhokar the moment the words ‘Assassin in White’ were whispered. Instead, Elhokar wore a simple, but stylish, outfit and clutched a golden cup in his hand. The crown on his head was slightly crooked. 

“What is it then?” Elhokar asked. “Have you caught the Assassin?”

Moash and Graves answered by summoning their Shardblades.

Startled gasps escaped the lips of servants and lighteyes alike. Elhokar recoiled. The cup in his hand tilted and a dash of wine spilled over the edge. Violet. The most potent. 

Kaladin’s gaze hardened as he watched the wine splash to the stone below, watched it disperse, it’s colour thinning and fading. And as he watched, he realised why the king wore no Shardplate.

He had been trying to drown his problems instead.

A flicker of anger curled in Kaladin’s belly as he watched Elhokar stagger drunkenly in shock. This man was no king.

“Who are you? What is the meaning of this?” Elhokar demanded. 

His eyes found Kaladin then, lurking in the doorway behind the two Shardbearers. 

“Bridgeman, what’s going on? Has the Assassin been—”

Kaladin let his dagger slide into view. 

“—found…” Elhokar’s voice trailed off as he caught sight of the weapon.

There was silence as everyone in the room seemed to grasp what was going on. The guards readied themselves, falling into fighting stances, the servants cowered and the few lighteyed guests that Elhokar had been entertaining looked frozen in fear. Everyone understood what was going to happen. Everyone, except Elhokar. The king stared dumbly at Kaladin’s dagger, eyebrows furrowed. Kaladin could almost see the thoughts ticking over in his drink-addled mind, much too slow and much too disjointed.

Finally, Elhokar’s eyes widened and he looked back at Kaladin again. From the look of shock on the king’s face, Kaladin knew that everything had clicked into place. Elhokar understood what was going to happen. He understood that Kaladin was a traitor to the crown.

Kaladin raised his chin and fixed Elhokar with a cool gaze—not to intimidate, but to hide the inner turmoil that suddenly rose within him. Despite his conviction and his anger, despite the fact that he knew this was the right thing to do, a part of him—the part that still questioned despite all else—wanted to give Elhokar a look that said ‘I’m sorry,’ even wanted to say the words aloud. But Kaladin pushed that part of himself deeper than he ever had before and kept his gaze hard, lips pressed tight. Because the king was a murderer and a coward and this had to be done. 

The shock on Elhokar’s face soon twisted into fear. “Assassins,” he breathed. His grip on his cup went dangerously loose and wine sloshed over the rim as it tilted sideways. “Assassins!” he cried, louder this time. “Help! Guards!”

And suddenly the room was overcome with movement.

Suddenly, there was no going back.

The guards rushed forward and Moash and Graves took this as the cue to start swinging. Two guards fell instantly, their eyes fizzling and burning as the giant Shardblades arced straight through their bodies. Many of the servants screamed and ran, but there was nowhere to go. The lighteyes found themselves cornered too, as a handful of guards split off from the rest and turned on them—Graves’s men.

In the middle of it all, Elhokar shrieked disgracefully. His cup fell from his hand as he shoved his way backwards through the people near him, all the while screaming for backup that would never come. Kaladin almost thought the king was going to make a run for it. But with two Shardbearers blocking the entrance and imposter guards drawing near, that was impossible. Elhokar was well and truly trapped. Regardless, the king continued to shove himself backwards through the small crowd.

And that was when Kaladin realised that Elhokar wasn’t trying to run. 

He was just trying to put as many people between him and the assassins as he could.

Kaladin seethed. _Coward_. If he ever needed confirmation that Elhokar was unfit to rule, the sight in front of him—servants and lighteyes alike being shoved mercilessly out of the king’s way and into the paths of spears and Shardblades—was more than enough. 

Anger rising hot within him, Kaladin readjusted his grip on his dagger and dropped his spear. Graves had been right; his favoured weapon would be of no use here; the fighting was too cramped. He didn’t know how long he’d last on his leg without a crutch, but he suspected that it wouldn’t matter. With two Shardbearers on his side, the fight should be over quick. 

Shooting one last glare at Elhokar, Kaladin raised his dagger and moved into the fray. 

He fell under attack instantly—two guards with weapons held high approached him from either side. Kaladin ducked, easily missing a swipe from the left. A sharp pain shot through his leg but he ignored it as he swiveled to grab the second man’s spear. Throwing his weight into it, he spun them around and _yanked_. The guard didn’t let go, all credit to him, but Kaladin hadn’t needed him to—his forceful pull had slammed the butt of the spear straight into the other guard’s chest and sent the man flying backwards. 

Right into the path of Moash’s Blade. 

Smoke curled out of the guard’s eyes and he crumpled. Kaladin couldn’t help but stare, his first kill—though inadvertent—coming much quicker than he had expected.

His distraction cost him his footing as the guard he was engaged with took his turn to tug on the spear. Kaladin let go as he stumbled towards the guard and narrowly missed a kick coming his way. He swiveled and slashed his dagger at the guard’s torso but his attack was blocked. He growled—half in frustration, half at the pain that lanced suddenly through his side—and grabbed the spear again. He stamped down hard on the man’s foot and as the guard bent forward involuntarily in pain, Kaladin snapped the shaft of the spear up into his face. The guard toppled backwards and Kaladin let the spear fall to the floor.

Another sharp pain shot through his leg and up his side, burning as it went. He hissed, stumbling a little. In the back of his mind he was vaguely aware of how much he was heaving, how much his hands were shaking. But he ignored it. He had to.

Across from him, one of the lighteyes had conjured a Shardblade of their own and had engaged Graves in a swordfight. The lighteyes seemed to be holding his own for now, but he would quickly tire against the power and speed that the Shardplate leant Graves’s attacks.

Kaladin rubbed at his leg, trying to soothe the pain back into a dull ache as he watched the lighteyes barely miss a vicious swipe to the neck. He didn’t have much time, he had to get moving, had to— 

Sensing movement from behind, Kaladin spun and raised his dagger.

A serving girl all but _fell_ onto his blade.

Kaladin recoiled in shock. The girl did too, though neither of them pulled far enough away for the blade to come out. Kaladin stared at the spot where it had embedded itself deep in the girl’s ribs. Dark red was already seeping outwards from the wound, staining the poor cloth of the girl’s dress. From the way she was wheezing, blood bubbling over her lips with every gasp, it looked like the dagger had punctured a lung.

With a pained whine, the girl tried to pull away again, but Kaladin grabbed her by the shoulder, stopping her. He stared into her wide, dark eyes for a moment, watching them glisten with tears. Then he pulled her close and tore the dagger out. Her face contorted in pain, pale tears spilling over as her mouth opened in a silent gasp.

He slammed the dagger through her heart.

Kaladin felt her drop but didn’t look. There was a boiling in his veins, a pounding in his temples, self-hatred at having killed an innocent warring against the fact that there was nothing he could have done. He had minimised her suffering. That had to be enough.

It didn’t feel like enough.

His mind spun, searching desperately for justification, for vindication. Perhaps, if he looked down, he might find a weapon that the girl had tried to attack him with? Self-defense was justifiable.

Wasn’t it?

Kaladin turned away, feeling sick. Syl wouldn’t have found it justifiable. She wouldn’t have found _any_ of this justifiable.

But she was only a spren; what did she know? She hadn’t experienced Elhokar’s disgraceful rule firsthand. She hadn’t suffered from his indifference and incompetence; hadn’t had her life ruined by a useless king that dealt out pain and suffering without a second thought. A king that couldn’t even fight his own battles—he was still screaming in the corner, calling for help when he could have— _should_ have—taken up his Shardblade and fought like a true king would. But he didn’t, and those around him fell for a monarch who didn’t care. How many more would be sacrificed for Elhokar’s cowardice? How many more would have to die? 

_No more_ , Kaladin thought, _once this is done_. 

Something flickered to the side of his vision, black and glittering, like a slit in reality with stars poking through. He spun to get a better look at it, but when he turned it disappeared and he found himself face to face with a guard.

He raised his dagger defensively.

It was the guard from before, looking a little dazed from being hit in the head with his own spear, but back on his feet and in a fighting stance nonetheless. Though the guard clutched his spear tightly, he made no move to attack.

“Captain Kaladin?” the guard’s voice shook with uncertainty.

Kaladin froze, his gaze going straight to the man’s face. And as he looked at the guard properly for the first time, it was with a pang in his chest that he realised he recognised the man. Not enough to bring a name to mind, but enough to realise that this was one of his own. The man wasn’t of Bridge Four, but he was from one of the other bridge crews. Kaladin had trained him at some point.

Now that he was looking at the guard’s face he couldn’t look away. The man was young—too young. Probably not even Kaladin’s age. His dark eyes were wide and frightened and a little foggy from the hit. He probably had a minor concussion. Kaladin wished he had hit him harder. Maybe then the guard would have woken with no memory of the attack and Kaladin wouldn’t have to kill him.

Because despite how desperately Kaladin wished otherwise, that was how this had to go. 

There was no way the man would keep his mouth shut about Kaladin’s involvement. There was no way Kaladin would be able to convince him. Any loyalty he had gained from the bridge crews had been sacrificed the instant he had set foot in Elhokar’s chambers and drawn a dagger. He didn’t want to kill the young man standing in front of him, but he had to.

Kaladin took a deep breath in.

And then a shriek from nearby caught his attention. It shouldn’t have, given his proximity to the enemy— _when did he start calling them that_ —and the danger of dividing his focus, but it did. Kaladin turned his head to see Elhokar barely miss a swipe from a guard. One of Graves’s men, no doubt. The king tottered backwards, eyes wide.

“Guards!” he screamed, as if he hadn’t been yelling that for the past minute with no response from outside.

_Storming fool_ , Kaladin thought.

Another guard—one of the proper ones—caught Elhokar’s attacker with his spear. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to force the man away from the king. And as the two guards were drawn sideways in battle, the space before Elhokar opened.

Clear and empty. Straight to the door. 

Kaladin’s eyes widened as he noticed. So did Elhokar’s.

The king ran. 

Kaladin forgot everything else. He forgot the fact that he knew the man in front of him—forgot the fact that he was a fellow bridgeman and deserved a better death than a dagger in the throat. His blade slid clean through skin and blood came quickly. A shocked cry cut off with a gurgle. Kaladin spared him only the briefest of glances, no whisper of apology on his lips where it should have been.

Because Elhokar was escaping and that was all that mattered.

Kaladin turned to follow, turned to stop him, but someone else moved quicker. A blur of silver shot through the air, wicked and impossibly fast, and embedded itself in the king’s side. And with that, everything seemed to slow down.

Kaladin watched Elhokar’s lips part in a soundless cry. He watched as Graves straightened from his throw, a faint grin tugging at the corners of the man’s mouth. He watched as the king stumbled and fell.

Elhokar collapsed on his back, one hand reaching for the silver hilt of the dagger in his side, the other spread wide and clutching at his chest. He heaved in pain, silent and shivery in shock. 

And as Graves turned back to his previous engagement with the lighteyed Shardbearer, as he left Elhokar struggling and wide-eyed in the middle of the floor, Kaladin knew. It wasn’t a blow intended to kill—it was a blow intended to keep the king from escaping, to keep him pinned and in pain until everyone else was dead. Until Moash and Graves could make the assassination in all its uninterrupted glory.

Kaladin stared at Elhokar. A younger version of himself would have seen a man in pain, a man in need of help.

But all Kaladin saw was an opportunity.

He felt as if he were floating as he moved towards Elhokar. The king was shaking, blood staining his lips as he wheezed. The wound hadn’t been intended as a fatal one but, if the widening pool of blood on the floor was anything to go by, the king’s shaking grip had loosened the blade in his side, allowing blood to flow freely. Without medical attention, he would bleed out in under ten minutes. Without medical attention he would suffer.

Kaladin looked down at the king sprawled at his feet. Elhokar’s light green eyes were foggy, but affixed themselves on Kaladin nonetheless. There was fear on his face, unrestrained and ugly.

“Are you going to kill me, traitor?” Elhokar whispered, a trickle of blood spilling over his lips and down his chin.

“You should have stepped down, Elhokar,” Kaladin replied quietly. “It wouldn’t have come to this if you had.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Kaladin fingered the dagger in his grip. His tone matched the cold chill of the blade. “This is for every injustice your inability to rule has caused,” he said. “This is for every life you’ve ruined—for every family you’ve destroyed. Dalinar will make a far better king than you ever could’ve been.”

Elhokar’s eyes widened at the mention of his uncle. If he thought Dalinar had sent Kaladin to kill him personally, then so be it. Kaladin didn’t bother correcting him. Maybe this way Elhokar would understand the full scope of his failure.

As Kaladin twisted the dagger in his hand, something tugged at him. Something familiar but at the same time different. Something strong and something he _wanted_.

Something he had craved ever since it had been lost to him.

Kaladin stared at Elhokar and saw himself reflected in the king’s wide, green eyes. He saw the bruises and the dirt and the blood spattered on his uniform. He saw the tiredness in his eyes and the pain in the tightness of his jaw. He saw someone exhausted, someone run-down and hopeless, committing dark deeds on a dark night because there was no other option.

Again, he saw a flicker of black at the edge of his vision. A slit of black with glittering depths.

And he knew he could be so much more. He could be more than an assassin in the night, a killer in the shadows. He could be powerful again, like he had been before. A shining, blinding temple of light and hope and _justice_. Crawl out of the dark and into the day. He could be _Radiant._

Kaladin latched onto that image and reached—reached out towards Elhokar. 

The something whispered words in his ear.

Words that he repeated without hesitation.

“I swear to seek out injustice and put an end to its perpetrators.” His voice was a whisper in the din, the shiver before the stormwall hit.

And hit, it did.

Kaladin exploded with light, Stormlight bursting forth at the same time it burst within. Elhokar shied away, throwing up a hand to shield his eyes. Startled gasps reached Kaladin’s ears but they were but a murmur in the storm, a whisper drowned out by the tumultuous, exultant return of _feeling_. 

Stormlight coursed through his veins, soothing as it went like a flood after a drought, washing away the dryness and death and bringing much needed rejuvenation. The aches and pains in his body drained away in seconds. He felt renewed. Alive.

Reborn.

Below him, Elhokar was now staring with eyes wide open—in terror or awe or disbelief, Kaladin wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was everything at once. 

He lowered himself to his knees. The king recoiled at his proximity but Kaladin leaned closer and in a low voice whispered, “This is also for my family.”

A Shardblade, blindingly bright and glowing, materialised in his hand. 

He plunged it straight through Elhokar’s chest.

The king’s eyes blackened and burned. Smoke curled outwards as ashes festered and curled inwards. Elhokar’s last breath—a mix of air and blood—released and his chest sunk. To his side, his Shardblade, Sunraiser, materialised. Uncalled for in the fight, it now lay useless in a pool of blood, inches from Elhokar’s outstretched fingers. 

There was silence. 

Kaladin took a deep breath in and exhaled shakily, clinging to his Shardblade still embedded in the king’s chest. Vaguely, he noticed that the room was darker than before. All the lamps on the walls had dulled, their Stormlight having jumped ship and taken up residence inside him instead. He glowed brightly, like a beacon in the darkness.

A beacon that had _caused_ the darkness.

Footsteps approached from the side and Kaladin blinked. There was a weird heaviness in his arms as he pushed himself up, dragging his Shardblade with him. Despite the Stormlight coursing through his body, he felt shaky, unsteady.

A figure in Shardplate stopped by his side and stared down at the body of the king. It was Moash, light tan eyes looking stunned behind his visor. Graves appeared a moment later, carrying a Shardblade in each hand. The leader of their conspiracy looked down at the king, then turned towards Kaladin.

“I see I was wrong to doubt you,” he said as he dismissed his Shardblade. He rested the other against his shoulder as he lifted his visor. “You are a true patriot, Captain. Alethkar will thrive thanks to you.”

Kaladin didn’t have any words so he didn’t respond.

Moash, who had looked almost frozen up until now, finally managed to pull his gaze away from the king. He lifted his visor and looked at Kaladin. 

“Your powers,” he said, a little breathless. “They came back! See, Kal? Killing the king was the right thing to do.”

There was awe and adulation in Moash’s eyes, making it difficult for Kaladin to look at him. It was equally hard to look at Elhokar’s body, so Kaladin found himself staring at nothing when he finally found his voice.

“You should leave,” he said.

“Kal—”

“Before someone comes.” 

There was silence for a moment and Kaladin pictured a frown forming on his friend’s face.

“What about you?” Moash asked quietly.

“I’m staying.”

_“What?_ You just killed the _king_. If someone were to find out—”

Kaladin turned to face Moash, fixing his friend with a hard look. “The Assassin in White killed the king. Now, _go_.” His voice was harsher than he intended, a strangled darkness lingering beneath its surface.

“Kal…” Moash stared at him, eyes searching, a flicker of concern—or was it hurt—dancing in their depths. “Come with us.” 

Kaladin shook his head. “My place is here with Dalinar,” he said. “I must ensure that what we did tonight doesn’t go to waste.”

Graves nodded as he clapped a hand on Moash’s arm. “He’s right, Moash. The deed is done. We need to leave.”

“But—”

“I’m sure the Captain is more than capable of escaping on his own should it come to it,” Graves said as he moved towards the door.

Moash stared at Kaladin a moment longer, looking as if he was about to protest again. But then he steeled himself and nodded.

“Kaladin.”

“Moash.”

“Find us if you need.” 

Kaladin nodded and Moash moved forward to rest a hand on his shoulder. 

“Your eyes are bright blue, by the way,” he said.

Kaladin froze, losing his breath as Moash gave him a small grin. He heard his friend’s words but pushed against them as they tried to hit home, shoving them away, out, _be gone_ , not letting them sink in so he wouldn’t have to think about what they meant.

“It’s a good look,” Moash said. “Suits you.”

Kaladin could only stare numbly as Moash turned to follow Graves. 

Moash made it to the door before he hesitated and turned back around. He raised his hands, wrists tapped together, in the Bridge Four salute. Blankly, instinctively, Kaladin returned the gesture. Then Moash left, leaving Kaladin alone and surrounded by corpses.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. It could have been a minute, it could have been ten. It felt like hours.

Too many thoughts swirled around in his head, conflicting and terrifying and painful, all threatening to pull him under. But he did his best to push them away—Moash’s words in particular—and closed his eyes, seeking solace in the darkness. He knew his thoughts would drag him under eventually. They always did. But now was not the time.

He breathed in, feeling the Stormlight flowing through his body. He felt powerful again, but as much as he relished in that knowledge, something was missing. Where he had expected warmth from the return of his powers, he just felt cold. And oddly disappointed. 

He opened his eyes and found himself staring at Elhokar. The king’s eyes, blackened and burned, were a sight that Kaladin would not soon forget. He knew he’d be seeing them for years to come in his dreams—that was, if sleep would still be possible for him after all of this. 

Kaladin dragged his gaze away and surveyed the rest of the room. There were too many corpses with burnt out eyes. Only two still stared, their eyes glittering but unfocused in the glow of Kaladin’s Stormlight. 

He found himself drawn to the serving girl first. He knelt by her side and brushed a strand of dark hair out of her face, biting back the pain and frustration that made his eyes burn as he looked at her. There was nothing he could do now. He couldn’t change the past, but hopefully his actions would change the future. Hopefully, now, no one else would have to suffer.

He ran his fingers over her eyes, gently sliding her eyelids closed. Then he turned to the young guard he had killed and did the same. The proper words finally found their way to his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Then he stood. Turning away from the girl and the guard and the pools of blood they lay in, he moved back over to Elhokar. He cast a final glance down at the king’s body and the crown that had toppled off his head. There were no words of apology on his lips for this one. 

He reached down and grasped the hilt of the Shardblade that lay in the pool of blood to Elhokar’s side. It screamed as he touched it and Kaladin recoiled. Despite being prepared for it, the sound sent a dreadful shiver down his spine. Bending down, he grabbed the end of his coat and wrapped it around Sunraiser’s hilt. Elhokar’s blood seeped into the fabric, turning it dark and soaking through to stain Kaladin’s hand as he grasped the covered hilt tightly.

No screams pierced through his head this time and he stood, moving towards the door that led to the balcony. Pulling it open, he stepped outside. 

A smattering of raindrops and the cool whisper of a breeze met him on the ledge. He lifted his head towards the sky, letting the rain wash over him and he sighed. It could have been pleasant, Kaladin thought, after the confines and horrors that lay inside, if it weren’t for the undercurrent of danger in the air.

Opening his eyes reluctantly and looking out towards the Shattered Plains, Kaladin could see flickers of red amidst the dark—red lightning, wicked and violent, flashing in the sky above the plains where Dalinar had gone to engage the Parshendi. And in the distance, he thought he saw a highstorm.

Kaladin felt the Stormlight surging within him, seemingly spurred on by the storms and the sight of all that sky above him—all that sky that could be his. It felt good, it felt natural and he yearned to be up there in the night air. But still, something felt different. Something felt wrong. 

As he stared at the wind churning the clouds in the sky, Kaladin knew. Syl wasn’t with him—he had well and truly killed her. And something else had taken her place. 

But he knew that if anything were to truly drag him under, it would be thoughts of Syl’s death that would do it. So, he turned his gaze back towards the red lightning flickering in the distance, pushed all other thoughts aside and reached—reached for what felt familiar, what he _longed_ for. He took a deep breath in.

And launched himself into the night air, towards the Shattered Plains.

Just in time to save the highprince falling from the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this ever since I read WoR & it finally happened.
> 
> This will have a chapter 2, though I don't know how soon it will be done. But it'll feature Adolin, Dalinar and some consequences :)


End file.
